Aimee watched her husband pick his nose as he sat on the couch. His gut expanded over the elastic band of his tighty-whitey underwear, bulging out like bread dough rising over the bowl. He stared at the TV screen with his mouth slightly open, his eyes focused on the game. After fifteen years of marriage, she hated him.

She left the room, disgusted. Although Jim had never been handsome, he was in good shape when they married. He had hair then, too. Jim had slipped into a comfortable lull, growing fat and bald without a care.

She could deal with his diminished looks. Hers weren’t what they used to be either. It was the complacency that really bothered her. He just didn’t care anymore, at least not about anything that mattered. He cared about eating and baseball.

As Aimee prepared the evening meal in the kitchen, she pictured that fat finger mining his nostril all the way up past the first knuckle. She was sure he’d flick the booger off into the air, letting it land randomly somewhere on the carpet.

When dinner was ready, he ambled into the dinning room. He had the decency to throw on some sweat pants before flopping into the chair at the head of the table.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked. It was the only question he ever asked her.

“Meatloaf,” she answered.

He helped himself to a large portion and then heaped some mashed potatoes next to it. She served herself salad but didn’t touch the rest of the food. They ate in silence.

When they had finished, he got up and moved back into the living room. She heard the TV go on and he flipped the channel to another baseball game. She cleaned up the dinner mess then went to join him.

She sat in the overstuffed chair in the corner, a mystery novel in her hand. She wasn’t really reading it though. She was watching Jim. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch and scratched his balls then settled back and burped, his hand still wedged in the band of his sweat pants. A tingle of anticipation twined itself around her stomach as she wondered what was happening in his.

After two innings of the game, Jim twitched and groaned, rubbing his belly. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Get me a Pepto-Bismol. My stomach hurts,” he complained.

Aimee got up and went to the medicine cabinet, a secret smile playing on her lips. She grabbed two of the pink peppermint pills and brought them out to Jim. She knew they wouldn’t help.

He chewed them up. A pink smudge stained the corner of his lips. He groaned again and sat forward, his face twisting into a grimace of pain. He stood quickly, heading to the bathroom, but stumbled over the coffee table. He fell to his knees and wretched, vomiting up chunks of meatloaf and potato streaked with blood.

“There’s something wrong.” He looked up to meet her eyes, pleading. A thin line of bloody spittle hung from his mouth.

“Yes, there is,” she said without sympathy. She knew what was in the meatloaf.

He squeezed his eyes shut and doubled over with another cramp. He opened his mouth, releasing more blood. It was dark and thick, rushing out of him in hot torrents. He cried out in pain and gripped his stomach, his breath coming in fast, hitching gasps.

Aimee stood with her arms folded across her breasts, watching her husband slowly die before her eyes. He moaned then lay still. His eyes stared blankly from their sockets with that same glazed-over look they had held when they were glued to the TV. She expected some release, some feeling of victory. Instead, she felt nothing. She sat back on the couch and changed the channel.